A Murky Tale
by And The Adversary Succeeds
Summary: Here's a little tale 'bout an old man who's a son of an ancient god. A man who is hunted down, meant to die, by Olympian forces. A forgotten story, but one that deserves to be told.  oneshot


Gather 'round the fire, children. Now let me weave you a yarn that may be true, whether or not is wholly up to you. The tale I tell is one of mysticism and magic. Of gods, their spawn, and monsters. Of dark intent and a need for revenge, if you see fit. Now listen close as I speak my peace. I call upon the Muses, all nine, for their guidance as I take time to tell you a story that most have not heard. Give me the words and let them flow like bitter wine and sweet honey from my tongue to satisfy the ears of those who listen.

Now, this little story revolves around the son of that darkest of gods. One so frightening and one so terrible that even the Olympians dare not say his name. For their need, when it comes, they call him the Hateful One, but I shall tell you– pardon me, a moment, so that I may ward off his evil– his grievous name. He is a son of she who wed the dark, that ancient goddess Nyx. Poured straight from her purest essence, she created a beast. A titan among titans, though he is much more than the children of the heaven o'erhead and the earth beneath our soles. She named him Moros, and he is the Lord of Doom.

Now the Hateful One– for I dare not say his name more than once– was infamous for his solitude; you see he'd never had a child. To the gods atop the Mountain that was all good and well, they'd rather he didn't throw around his power to a Half-Protogenos. For as bad as one was, a child from him would be so much worse.

But then it came about no more'n seventy years ago that the Hateful One favored a mortal woman. He courted her for a time, for he is not like other gods. When she bore his son he hid them away, deep in a swamp of his choosing. Now, he filled it with all manner of ugly and vicious beasts. Ones that he wove to fit his deed. He haunted the mists of that forsaken place, ever watching his wife and son.

The gods got wind of the One's only son, and they grew mighty nervous. A child like this, they said, could topple Olympus should we let him live. Best we kill him now while he's still but an infant. The Hateful One knew their plan and when Zeus sent his four enforcers the Lord of Doom took them each and threatened to damn them to Tartarus should they return.

Zeus knew he'd have to send sumthin' a lil' stronger than the children of Styx, so he sought out the help of his brother Hades. Now Hades has little, if any, love for his younger brother. But he, too, knew of the threat this child could pose.

Now let me tell you a bit 'bout Doom's old son. With the boy's mother the Hateful One named the boy Floyd. That's right, Floyd. You see, he grew to be a man of mystery. Tall, he was, with knotted mucles o'er his body. His eyes, black as Nyx, glowed out from under his black hair. That was when he was young, of course. When the gods finally decided to attack, Floyd was 'round about his fifties or early sixties. He now had a long gray beard, and his muscles weren't as prominent as before. Yet he was still a mighty figure, and his eyes were still blacker 'n Hades' soul.

The Hateful One was prepared to defend his son, but Floyd went and said, 'Dad, now you listen here. I appreciate all you've done, but now that mother's gone, I think I can take care of myself. I'd take it as a kindness if ye give me a little leeway, here. You ain't got cause to fear.'

Doom was reluctant but he left the fogs of the swamps. The gods immediately went into action.

The people of the little town 'round where Floyd's swamp was situated knew that he was there. They were all a little scared of him, and with all right to be. Lonesome old man livin' out in the woods, sounds like sumthin' from a horror movie, right? Well, like I says, you believe or you don't. S'all up to you.

Anyway, when Hades' men came through, all skeletal to the eyes of those who could truly _see_, the rest saw 'em as a bunch of pale ol' policemen. And with them came hellhounds on leashes, and all the mortals saw was some big, mean rottweilers. They was a'headin' straight for the swamp, and the people reckoned that ol' Floyd must've done sumthin' wrong. They started whispering and a' rumorin' 'bout Floyd killin' some man or woman or even a few kids, though not a lick of it was true, let me tell you!

These soldiers of the dead, they went on ahead and into Floyd's murky swamp. They trudged down through that thick bayou towards the heart where the son of Doom's cabin would be. The gators raised up 'n took some of them skeleton men down. The waters slurped others down and crunched on 'em like pretzels. Them hellhounds went a yappin' back to their master, them that lived.

'Cause you see some did reach Floyd's ol' home. He came out with a sawed off shotgun and let loose with celestial buckshot, boys! A little gift from daddy, more 'n likely. He blew 'em away, but they fought back. Skeleton's with muskets and other guns fired away! It was a mighty battle, but, even to this day, nobody remembers how the end came. 'Cause Floyd was chased from his home. They advanced and pushed him deep into the murk. Some said he faded into the mist, like he became a part of the swamp. The spirit of the waters. He creeped on through and tore them bony boys down!

Now, when the gods looked down they saw his house was burned to the ground. Floyd himself had disappeared. Did he die, or did he live? None knew for sure. But they say, that still to this day, you can hear the bayin' of them hellhounds deep in the waters, and the snappin' of gators, the crunchin' of bones, the souls out a'hollerin', and the crack from a gun. Sometimes, though, you can hear the laughter of an ebony eyed old man as he sits on the porch of his ghostly home in a wooden rocker as he waits for the gods to strike again.

So now it's up to you, think on it as I, again, thank the Muses nine for their blessing upon my oral recitation of this old story. Did Floyd exist, spawned by the Lord of Doom, or is this the conjuration of some storytellin' man? Just think back to Homer and Virgil, the old Western minstrels and their tales. And think upon this story as you walk along the banks of any swamp or bayou, 'cause they say that ol' Floyd is the lord of the murky waters, given reign of 'em by his father. Like Aristaeus by Gaia, only he was made immortal by his father.

Now, before I close I would like to give a word of warnin, children. Listen closely, now, and pay with every attention you gots, ye hear? If ever you should meet ol' Floyd, before you speak, make the ward 'gainst evil and don't ever appear meek. Floyd will let you go as long as you don't try and do harm to him first or look too weak.

Nighty-night.

_Inspired by _Lynyrd Skynyrd_'s song _Floyd_, and I own neither the song nor the series I utilized._


End file.
